Mere Mortals
by purpleraincloud
Summary: Vaughn's bath in ATY has some lasting effects...meanwhile, Syd retrieves one of the three Rambaldi rings
1. Default Chapter

Disclaimer: If you don't own this stuff and you know it clap your hands. :Clap clap:

Author's Notes: Trying to cheer myself up with some writing after a long week of midterms. :sigh: Sorry I'm such a spastic dork. I'll try to finish this somehow… Pardon the fragmentation; I'm an admirer of Faulkner. 

Mere Mortals

* * *

Los Angeles, CA

9:00 p.m.

The docks

Vaughn-

I'm told I owe you my life. Consider this a down payment.

-Will

            "You told him about me?" Vaughn asked, running his index finger through the leather bound diary. The initial page, scribbled on by the reporter, Tippin, acknowledged Vaughn's part in saving the man's life. 

            Sydney shrugged, hooked her fingers around the rail overlooking the still waters and leaned as far forward as she could. "He knew I had to have had some kind of help."

            "What'd he get your father? A coaster set?" He asked with a wry smile that was gone so fast that Sydney thought she might have imagined it.

            "He asked me what you'd want. So I told him."

            Vaughn fingered the thick, coarse material of the book once more in amusement.

_            "I loved my father, but he was a company man. Always did what he was told. Only in his diary would he say what he could never say to the CIA directors… He followed orders…it killed him."_

"Think I'll need it?" he asked carefully, lowering his eyes a bit.

            "Hoping that you don't."

* * *

Two weeks before

Los Angeles, CA

5:34 a.m.

            "Michael? Michael Vaughn?" The nurse asked, jabbing the forearm of the brunette man asleep in one of the waiting room chairs.

            Startled, Vaughn shot out of his seat and with searching eyes, gazed into the kind, brown ones of the nurse.

            "Sorry about that."

            "You're here for Eric Weiss?"

            Vaughn nodded, stretching his cramped arms out. "Is he going to be okay?" he asked, cringing when he heard how weak his voice sounded. The nurse made no acknowledgement of having heard the question, but quietly lead him inside the small, white, sterile room. 

            "Don't touch anything. I'll be back in a minute."

            Vaughn watched as the woman left the room, alone with Weiss at last. Sitting at the edge of the bed, he fingered the report nervously. 

            "You're going to be all right Eric. Don't you worry. They've got you all taken care of here."

            "Are you telling him that or yourself?" A familiar voice asked quietly. Turning slightly, he caught sight of the older man hovering just within his peripheral vision. He shut his eyes and blinked away the dancing white lights.

            _Damn. Not now._

_            "Are you naturally this callous or do you practice at home in front of the mirror?" Vaughn asked casually, keeping his emotions in check quite well._

            Jack Bristow raised an eyebrow slightly, whether in amusement or confusion, Vaughn didn't know.

            "Sorry," he mumbled, looking down at his hands. "You didn't deserve that."

            Jack shrugged. "Maybe I did." He took the seat beside Vaughn, a metal armchair, the kind people in laboratory experiments are strapped to. Vaughn shuddered.

            "Didn't know you and Eric were close."

            "We're not." He replied flatly. "You had a medical evaluation once you got back from France."

            Vaughn's eyes darkened a bit, the grim determination never leaving his boyish face. For a moment he said nothing, nudged at Weiss in a child like manner with his fingertips. After a moment he clutched his hands protectively to his chest, hugging himself, as if he were suddenly cold. 

"Yeah."                                                                                                                                                               

            Jack barely heard the reply. Rather uncharacteristically, he took the younger man's hand into his. It was trembling only slightly.

            "If you're going to do it, do it now," he gritted out, eyes wavering from the older Bristow's eyes to the syringe in his left hand.

            "You have nothing to fear."

            Vaughn would have laughed had it been another man before him.

            "You're the one holding the needle."

            "I'll tell Sydney-"

            "Nothing." Vaughn interjected.

            The two men locked eyes. Jack nodded.

            Vaughn forced himself to breathe. He closed his eyes and when he opened them, the worried expression that creased the young man's face was gone.

            He felt a shooting pain that quickly ran up his arm and blindsided him on the back of his skull. 

Then there was nothing. Vaughn said nothing, heard nothing, His eyes rolled back and he collapsed rather nimbly into the other man's waiting arms.

* * *

            "Joey's Pizza?"

            Sydney's eyes widened a bit at the sound of the unfamiliar voice. "Vaughn?" She whispered, turning to watch Francie exit the living room.

            "Not available. This is Agent Mallory, his stand-in."

            There was no mistaking the rise in Sydney's voice as she echoed: "What do you mean he's 'not available?'"

* * *

One week before

LAX

7:30 a.m.

            "This is crazy Agent Bristow," Mallory declared, eyes wandering out into the busy L.A. traffic. "Tell me your coordinates."

            "Tell me where Vaughn is." Sydney snapped back, killing the line before her handler could respond. Frantically searching her bag, she managed to pull out a Florida state driver's license under the name "Pamela James" to show to the woman at the terminal.

            After hacking at the computer for a minute, the woman smiled and handed Sydney her ticket.

            "Flight 397 to Wales is now boarding on terminal 22. Please enjoy your flight."

* * *

Los Angeles

CIA HQ

4:00 p.m.

            "If you know something tell me now."

            Dr. Barlett said nothing for a moment, allowing Sydney's ragged breathes to fill the empty silence in the room. After hearing no reply, Sydney turned as if to go.

            "Sydney. Have a seat."

* * *

Los Angeles

6:00 p.m.

            "Sydney, please have a seat," Arvin Sloane told her, signaling to the leather chair adjacent to Dixon.

            Nodding, she allowed her eyes to wander over to her father's and resting there, staring daggers at him. Had he been a mere mortal, he would have turned to stone. But he wasn't; only a slight crease over his left eyebrow indicated he even noticed she was looking at him at all. Silently, Sydney took her seat. Diverting her attention back to Sloane, Sydney watched as a gold ring appeared on the main screen. 

            "Didn't know Rambaldi shopped at Tiffany's." Sydney replied dryly. Marshall chucked, nearly choking on his sandwich.

            "Actually Sydney," Sloane replied with what Sydney guessed he thought passed for a smile, "you're not too far off. This signet ring was one of three created by Rambaldi. The first two were found by the Nazis during the end of WWII and have subsequently disappeared."

            "The KGB stole them during their raids in Germany." Sydney reasoned. 

            Sloane nodded. "That's what our sources are guessing."

            "But why would they be after the third ring now, after all these years have passed?" Dixon asked.

            "Well," Marshall interjected raising his hand slightly like a third grader asking to use the bathroom, "I can answer that."

            Sloane nodded, allowing him to continue.

            Marshall zoomed in on the ring's surface. On it were strange markings that reminded Sydney a little bit of words in Sankrit.

            "Ingrained onto the rings are several chemicals…it is believed that combined the chemicals will create…well…"

            "Well?" Sydney asked, raising an eyebrow at Marshall's reluctance to continue.

            "We-uh, don't know," Marshall answered with a sheepish grin, "maybe a plague…maybe the 21st century's penicillin…maybe a diet soda that really doesn't taste like diet soda...we don't know."

            "The ring was part of a private collection owned by a man named Artur de Silver. Recent financial problems have caused him to sell some of his most…valued pieces. The Rambaldi ring goes on the auction block in 48 hours in Wales." Jack spoke calmly, ignoring Sydney's glances. 

            "You will switch the ring with a dummy one before the auction starts and bring it back for examination. Sydney," Sloane said, placing his hand on her shoulder, "you're point. Good luck."

* * *

Los Angeles

St. Luke's Episcopal Church

9:00 p.m.

            Jack heard the clattering noise of her heels hitting the wooden floorboards marking her arrival before he felt her signaling to him, the fur of her winter coat brushing his hand. Slowly, he rose and entered the priest's chamber in the confessional booths. Sydney, watching him move from the corner of her eye, let a few seconds pass before she followed suit. 

            "How appropriate that we should meet here," Sydney spoke aloud her thoughts as she entered the dark room and pulled back the wooden slab so she could see her father's eyes.  "I'm getting on a plane to Wales in two hours and you are going to give me some answers right now."

            Jack's stony face only twitched a little, barely noticeable. "I can't tell you what's happening with him. I can only tell you we're doing all we can for him."

            "So it's true." Sydney whispered, her hands coming over to cover her face.

            "What did they tell you?" Jack asked flatly.

* * *

Los Angeles

CIA HQ

4:05 p.m.

            "During your mission with Agent Vaughn in Taipei, he was submerged in water for the course of several minutes…that is what you said in your statement, correct?" Dr. Bartlett asked carefully.

            Sydney nodded. "Yes, that's true." Several excruciatingly long minutes to be exact.

            "Well, apparently…that wasn't mere water he was swimming in."

            Sydney sat up; distress coloring her cheeks and darkening her eyes.

            "What do you mean?"

            "The agency is doing everything that they-"

            "Don't…don't," Sydney swallowed the rage in her throat. "Don't give me that crap Dr. Bartlett."

            "I…I wish I could tell you more…" Sydney's anger abated slightly when she saw the sincere regret in the doctor's eyes. "I'm sorry."

* * *

Los Angeles

St. Luke's Episcopal Church

9:10 p.m.

            "That 'doing everything they can' crap I keep hearing," Sydney spoke, eyes never wavering from her father's, "that's all in an effort to…"

            She couldn't continue.

            "We're trying to keep him alive Syd." Jack finished, suddenly hating the darkness and the walls that separated the two of them. 

            Sydney felt her weight drop and touched the floor between her fingers. 

            "Sydney?" Jack called out in a loud whisper. "Sydney!"

            "It's all my fault," she replied in a voice that was barely audible. 

            "Sydney, no…honey, he chose to go with you. He…" Jack couldn't finish his sentence. He was drowned out by the barrel of "no's" Sydney let loose that echoed continuously in the small room. 

* * *

TBC…when I'm done with my history paper…which at the rate I'm going…hehe…don't expect an update anytime soon. 


	2. Chapter Two

Disclaimer: Go ahead and sue me. That'd be good pr: big TV network sues poor college student barely making tuition. Come on. I dare ya! (Um…you get I'm joking, right? Love you CBS guys/gals.)

Author's Notes: I'm trying to update all the active stories I currently have up. It may take me a while, but I'll try to get the next part up as soon as possible. Encouragements are revered for all they're worth. 

* * *

Wales

12:30 a.m.

            "Sydney, this is Agent Kendall, do you read me?"

            Sighing, she adjusted her earpiece and smiled charmingly at the French man who swung by with a tray of "fancy sandwiches."  

            "What do you want Kendall," she asked with clinched teeth, still smiling as the man walked passed her.

            "What do I want? I want to know if you're still working with us. I'm aware of your frustration with having your handler replaced so suddenly, but Agent Mallory is just doing his job…as you should be."

            Sydney snorted. The irony of someone like Kendall lecturing her about ethics did not escape her.

            "I'm at the auction house in Wales. Mallory gave me my briefing twenty minutes ago" she replied, ignoring his earlier comments.

            There was a long pause and then, "Just get the job done, Agent Bristow. No more games."

            "No more games," Sydney confirmed sharply. The radio went silent.

* * *

Wales

12:10 a.m.

            "Agent Bristow?"

            Sydney turned. "Agent Mallory?" she asked, uncertainly. The man was young, with the face to match. 

            "Yes. It's good to meet you face-to-face," the young man said with a smile that was a little too wide for Sydney's liking. She took the offered hand and flashed her "third grader taking her school picture" smile. 

            "The Rambaldi ring," Sydney inquired, pulling her hand away and looking away from Mallory. She had managed to break away from Dixon when they entered the auction house, but it wouldn't be a matter of minutes before he came looking for her. 

            "Oh, yes. There will be no initial switch of the rings as planned by Sloane. Agent Mathaney, aliased Matt Kandolph, will purchase the ring and you will rendezvous with him as he goes to pick up his purchase. Agent Mathaney will collect the necessary data from the ring and then the switch for the dummy ring will be made. You will then complete your mission and deliver the real ring to SD-6."

            Sydney nodded her understanding. "Are we through?" she asked, any menace she intended came out as weariness.

            "Yes. Good luck Agent Bristow."

* * *

Three days after

Los Angeles

8:00 a.m.

            "Good morning Mr. Weiss. How do you feel this morning?" A small Japanese woman in a clean, white nurse's uniform asked while pulling the curtains open.

            Weiss smiled, feeling triumphant in having rid his room of Nurse Evelyn. Known by the entire third floor as Nurse Ratchet, Nurse No Fox Sportsnet for you even though you're suffering from terminal boredom and laying on thin, cold hospital sheets…the probable ex-head nurse of a Nazi internment camp…

            Hey, who says ridding the world of evil starts with the K-Directorate? Weiss was feeling damn proud of himself. 

            "I think you have a visitor this morning, that is, if you're up to it," the young nurse asked, looking to Weiss for an answer.

            Weiss shrugged. "Sure, got nothing else to do."

            Smiling, the nurse nodded. "I'll let him in then."

            He eyed her with an undeserved amount scrutiny as she collected his breakfast tray and exited the room.

She did not return.

            A few moments after a light shuffling sound could be heard down the typically lifeless hallway, but just as soon stilled. Reverting his attention back to the door, Weiss met the eyes of a rather tall man, average build, leaning his compact frame against the entrance way. For a moment, Weiss almost marveled at the man, seemingly priestly in stature and poise. Long face, deep set chin –blonde, no, in the fluorescent light of the hospital room, it appeared white. Weiss thought he looked like one of the numerous jocks he knew in high school, except this man was wearing a starched white shirt and a CIA issued shoulder holster with trimmings.

            "Agent Eric Weiss? I'm Agent Sean Mallory. I was wondering if we could…chat." 

* * *

Los Angeles

CIA HQ

8:00 p.m.

            "He wanted to 'chat' with you?" Sydney asked, disbelieving.

            Weiss, for the fourth time since he called Agent Bristow into a meeting in his office, squirmed at the loudness of her voice.

            "Sorry," Sydney whispered and shot him a sympathetic look. Twisting the blinds shut, Weiss hobbled over to his desk and managed to retrieve a single, manila folder amidst the ocean of paperwork currently occupying his front desk. 

            Handing it to her, he continued in a hushed voice, "Yes…listen, the Bureau in Chicago has a three year old file on a group that call themselves 'The Order of Seers.' A small band of what the Bureau considers terrorists; they have a following of a hundred or so."

            "So what?" Sydney asked, eyes pouring through mug shot after mug shot of all the known members of this so-called cult.  

            "They have a ton of paperwork, documentation that they believe, prove they are the descendents of Rambaldi, and therefore, heir to all his secrets. Check out the pretty face on the last page of that file." 

            Sydney turned the folder around and flipped to the first page on the back. There, staring at her with unabashed familiarity, was the youthful face of Agent Mallory.


End file.
